Work Text:
Quantico was quieter after hours. Reid was learning that agents without active cases did not often linger past five.
Morgan and Gideon had left twenty minutes ago. Hotch's office light was dark. Without their voices, the bullpen felt empty.
Reid remained at his desk with a stack of case files piled in front of him like a challenge. Gideon had encouraged him to go home. But he hadn't. The Bureau's archives held decades of profiling theory, and he refused to be the weak link in his first months on the unit.
But tonight he wasn't reading. His gaze dropped to the notepad beneath his hand. He tapped his pen once against his lip, thinking. The page was divided into three columns:
Observed Reaction
Probable Cause
Adjusted Response
He added one more line, studied it, then closed the pad. Around him, only a few agents remained. Their heads were bent over paperwork and their keyboards clicked softly in the near-empty bullpen.
Reid quietly stood. He grabbed his jacket and his bag, then made his way down the corridor to the restroom.
The mirror reflected a thin, overdressed twenty-two-year-old in a suit that still felt like a costume — though "suit" was being generous. The cardigan hung slightly too long at the wrists, the slacks were an indefensible shade of beige. His choices were objectively professional, technically acceptable. But standing beside Morgan's perfectly fitted shirts or Hotch's starched lines, he looked less like an FBI agent and more like someone who had borrowed his grandfather's wardrobe and hoped no one would notice. Like a graduate who had gotten lost on his way to a lecture and accidentally wandered into the FBI.
He inhaled.
"I know, I know, I'm weird." He said with a slightly overemphasised roll of the eyes — then his brows furrowed. He paused, assessing his tone.
Too defensive.
He tried again, lighter this time. "I prefer 'statistical outlier.'" He said quickly with an attempt at a casual smile.
Then he flinched slightly, shaking his head. "No. That invites follow-up." He muttered
He shifted his shoulders back, attempting Morgan's easy looseness. He took a breath in, meeting his own gaze in the mirror. "Relax, man, it's just data."
He winced, almost unable to look at himself.
No. Way too forced.
He took another deep breath in, coaching his own reflection. "Keep it under ten seconds." He said firmly. "Answer first. Expand only if asked."
He rested his hands on the sink and leaned forward as if sharing a secret with himself. "Reduce friction."
Outside in the corridor, Garcia had returned for her scarf, but paused when she heard the unmistakable murmur of Reid's voice on the other side of the bathroom door.
She froze automatically.
Reid was not someone who was easy to overhear. He kept himself contained in public spaces. In the bullpen he spoke when prompted, delivered brilliance in short and tidy bursts then retreated back behind his files like a book snapping shut. Garcia already adored him — the earnestness, the restless mind, the way he blushed when Morgan teased him — but getting past that professional mask was like trying to coax a feral cat out from under a porch. Slow. Patient... No sudden movements.
So to hear his voice speaking with an uncharacteristic confidence from behind the bathroom door was... unexpected, to say the least.
After listening carefully for a few moments, her brows furrowed and she edged closer, trying to decipher what he was actually saying.
"I don't need to elaborate unless Agent Gideon requests supporting data."
A pause.
"If Agent Hotchner doesn't respond verbally, conclude acceptance."
Another pause.
"Do not correct Agent Morgan mid-sentence."
Garcia's chest tightened. Her hand came up to push on the door, then she held for a moment, second guessing herself. Reid was a private person. He surely wouldn't appreciate being interrupted. But something in Garcia's heart told her that she shouldn't leave him alone.
Suddenly, the restroom door opened.
Reid stepped out fast, nearly colliding with her. He startled, jumping sideways before trying to smooth it over.
"Garcia!" His voice was a little squeaky but the smile came quickly. Shy but practised.
"Hey, baby genius." She said fondly, her own cheeks flushing slightly as she realised she may have just been caught eavesdropping.
He adjusted his satchel strap as he clearly searched his mind for conversation starters.
Garcia weighed him up for a moment. His demeanour was tight and guarded, as it often was in social encounters. His hand clutched the strap on his bag like it was a lifeline.
"Were you heading out?" She asked casually, nodding up the corridor.
"Uh— yeah, in a minute."
She paused for a moment, then tilted her head. "What were you doing in there?" She asked gently.
Reid blinked at her and shook his head questioningly.
"I heard you talking." She clarified.
"Oh." Reid shifted slightly, looking back at the bathroom. "I was rehearsing." He said it plainly, like it was completely normal.
Garcia waited for him to expand, but he didn't. "For…?"
"Tomorrow."
Now it was Garcia's turn to blink. The words didn't feel like they were making sense to her. "Okay..." She said slowly. "Walk me through that."
Reid nodded once, seemingly accepting the request. "I've observed inefficiencies in my social integration with the unit."
Garcia's mouth dropped open. "Your what now?"
Reid took in a deep breath. "I prolong discussions unnecessarily. I correct senior agents in ways that may be perceived as undermining. I answer questions with excessive contextual data."
He said it like he was reading from a report.
"So you're… practising?"
"Yes." Reid answered flatly.
Garcia gave a small smile. "For what purpose?"
"To minimise disruption."
Garcia's expression dropped into a frown instantly. "Wait... has someone said you're disruptive?" She asked carefully.
Reid shook his head. "No." He answered quickly. "But Agent Morgan's humour often requires modulation. Agent Hotchner's silence duration increases when I diverge from a direct answer. Agent Gideon watches — he doesn't intervene — but sometimes I can see impatience."
He'd noticed everything, storing it somewhere deep inside, like a catalogue.
Garcia felt something fierce and protective stir in her chest.
"Reid..." She started gently. "You don't think they value what you bring to the team?"
He hesitated. "That's not the variable I'm adjusting."
Garcia furrowed her brows. "Then what is?"
"I don't want them to regret recruiting me." He answered honestly. More honestly than Garcia was expecting.
Her heart cracked. "You really think that's something you need to worry about?"
"I'm not worried." He clarified quickly. "I'm realistic. I'm twenty-two. I have no field experience. My doctorate is theoretical. My social error rate is measurably above average."
"Your what rate?"
"I misread tone. I answer literally. I provide additional information when it hasn't been explicitly requested. I correct inaccuracies reflexively." He swallowed, a small frown crossing his features. "Agent Morgan calls me 'Pretty Boy.'"
Garcia broke out into a grin. "That's flirting." She said automatically.
Reid blinked again. "It's… not negative?"
"No, sugar."
He hesitated, clearly replaying prior interactions. "I assumed it implied decorative value rather than operational. That he might see me as… insufficiently imposing."
Her expression softened immediately. "Oh, honey."
Reid looked faintly unsettled. "It statistically correlates with moments where I am not being taken entirely seriously."
Garcia gave a small chuckle. "It correlates with him liking you."
Reid didn't look entirely convinced, but nodded anyway. He licked his lip in his usual anxious manner. "Agent Hotchner rarely provides positive reinforcement."
"That's just Hotch." She countered quickly.
"And Agent Gideon—" He stopped.
"What about Gideon?" Garcia asked curiously.
"He observes." There was no accusation in it. Just an uncertainty that showed he hadn't quite managed to get a read on the man yet. Which, Garcia had been assured ok many occasion, wasn't uncommon. She hadn't yet achieved it either. If she was honest, he terrified her.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Reid, you were recruited because you see things that none of them can." She said reassuringly. "Because of how your brains works. They need that."
Reid's voice was flat and decisive. "That doesn't negate interpersonal strain."
Garcia blew out a breath of disbelief. "You're not a strain."
He shifted his weight. "I require adjustment."
Garcia reached out and tugged lightly at the edge of his sleeve.
"Sweetheart, you are not defective."
Reid dropped his gaze and paused for a moment. His lips twitched. "I am statistically atypical." He said quietly. "That complicates cohesion."
Garcia shook her head. "And how do you plan to 'fix it'?" She clearly wasn't happy with the route this conversation was taking.
"I can compress responses." He answered confidently. "If I answer within no more than ten seconds, it reduces conversational lag. If I pre-label my differences, it diffuses them—"
"Like calling yourself weird first." Garcia said dryly.
"Yes." Reid nodded.
"So no one else can." She said knowingly.
He didn't respond. His silence said enough.
Reid then met her gaze, his voice was careful. "If I don't adjust, I increase the probability of exclusion."
Garcia froze.
His words were calm and measured, but something in his tone wasn't. She knew this ran deeper than he was allowing her to see. It wasn't projection or theory. It was memory, stripped of emotion and redressed as statistics. Her stomach churned.
She'd heard that tone before. From kids who'd learned to survive by becoming less visible. From people who'd turned their hurt into data because it was safer than actually feeling it.
"Sweetie..." Her voice was soft and her eyes gentle. "Has that happened before?"
For a brief moment, he forgot to mask. It was small — so small most people would have missed it. But Garcia saw it. The flicker behind his eyes. The tightening of his jaw. The hesitation that was born from insecurity rather than calculation.
His throat worked. "Yes." The word was barely above a whisper.
Garcia felt her chest ache. She had the sudden, overwhelming urge to reach out and pull him into her arms — and knew that would be too much, too fast. So she stayed where she was, her hands curling into loose fists at her sides instead.
"Reid…" She breathed.
But the moment was already passing. His shoulders straightened and his expression smoothed into neutrality again.
"But that is not relevant to current variables." He added evenly.
Garcia wanted to argue that it was the only relevant variable. Instead, she swallowed and blinked away the sting in her eyes. She met his gaze firmly.
"You don't have to shrink to fit in."
Reid looked skeptical.
"You are not on the verge of being voted off the island." She added gently.
He frowned faintly. "That is not how federal task forces operate."
"You know what I mean." Garcia rolled her eyes slightly, a small smile quirking at her lips.
He didn't deny it.
"I know I've not been here long, and I'm no profiler, but that doesn't mean I don't notice things — Morgan?" Garcia continued. "Morgan only teases people he likes. If he didn't respect you, he wouldn't waste his breath."
Reid absorbed that, his expression unreadable.
"And Hotch... he is allergic to inefficiency. If he thought you were a liability or taking up too much time, you wouldn't still be here. He is a man who doesn't carry dead weight."
Reid's lips tightened. That one seemed to land somewhere deeper.
"And Gideon…" She hesitated. Then she gave a small laugh. "That man is an enigma."
Reid's brows furrowed, then a flicker of almost-amusement crossed his face.
"I may not understand him yet… or ever." She added with a huff. "And I definitely don't understand half of what goes on in his head… but I've seen the way he looks at you when you're talking."
Reid stilled watching her carefully.
"And he's interested. In every single thing you say."
He didn't breathe for a second.
"You are the only person he actually has patience with. Trust me, Morgan would kill for Gideon to look at him the way he looks at you."
Reid's eyes widened slightly.
"Why?" He asked, genuinely puzzled.
Garcia couldn't help but laugh at his obliviousness. "Because you're his golden boy."
Reid frowned and shook his head in denial. "He challenges my conclusions regularly."
"Yeah, but he listens to them first."
Reid tilted his head slightly. "He listens to Morgan too."
Garcia nodded in understanding. "Yeah, I know and he knows that. Reid, Morgan's good. He knows he's good. He has the field instincts, the people skills, all of it. But Gideon? He lights up for puzzles, and patterns, and theory. And when you start talking, he pays attention."
Reid didn't interrupt.
"That's not something Morgan can compete with." She added gently. "And he doesn't want to. But trust me... he notices it."
A flicker of discomfort crossed Reid's face. "That is not my intention."
Garcia looked confused. "What isn't?"
"To... draw disproportionate attention. If that alters team perception—"
"Oh Reid, that is so not what I am saying."
He stopped immediately, as if she'd interrupted a line of reasoning mid-equation.
"You're not taking anything away from Morgan, he's a big boy."
Reid's shoulders remained slightly tight. His tone was serious. "I am aware that I am the most junior member of the unit. If preferential attention creates—"
"It doesn't." She cut in softly. "You're not stealing the spotlight." She smiled. "You're being appreciated."
Reid's eyebrows raised for a moment, then he licked his lip again. "I would not wish to make Morgan feel… secondary," He admitted, his words chosen with care.
Garcia scoffed. "Derek Morgan does not do secondary." She grinned. "Trust me."
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"He's confident." She continued lightly. "He knows what he brings to the table."
Reid looked down at that. His fingers fiddled with the edge of his sleeve.
"And so do you." She added confidently.
Reid didn't look up. She could see his shoulders drop slightly.
"Reid... you are not here by accident." She said seriously. More serious than he had ever seen her.
His jaw tightened faintly, like that was a variable he had not yet fully ruled out. "I have been wrong before." He said carefully. "About… belonging."
The vulnerability in his tone tugged at her heart.
"Maybe... but this isn't before." She stepped forward slightly. "You keep acting like your place is temporary. Like you're waiting for someone to tap you on the shoulder and say there's been a mistake."
His gaze lifted to hers.
"No one is mistaking you for someone else." She smiled. "Gideon chose you. Hotch signed off on you." She took a deep breath. "The things you're trying to 'adjust'? They are why you're here. I knew straight away that this unit isn't a place you have to squeeze yourself into." She continued. "It's built for people who don't fit anywhere else."
Something flickered across his face at that. Garcia hoped it was recognition.
"I see you trying to earn your spot every single day, and you really don't have to." She reached out placed a careful hand on his upper arm. "You already have one."
Reid tensed at the contact, but didn't pull away. When his voice came, it was quieter than before.
"I am… different."
"Yeah... join the club." She chuckled, gesturing to herself. "And this place? It could be home for you. If you'd just let it."
The word seemed to catch him off guard.
"Home." He repeated quietly, considering it like it was too fragile to speak any louder.
Garcia watched him for a second, then shrugged lightly. "You don't have to become someone else to live there."
Reid tensed. "I am not attempting to become someone else." He replied automatically.
She raised an eyebrow. "You're literally rehearsing lines in the bathroom."
He opened his mouth to argue — then steadied himself. "That is optimisation." He corrected.
"Call it whatever you want, sweetie. It's still you trying to be something you're not. They don't want an actor. They just want you."
He still looked unconvinced.
Garcia huffed softly. "Okay, let me put it another way." She shifted her weight, her hands waving as she talked. "Have you ever tracked down something rare? Like super rare. Not because it's perfect, but because it's different?"
Reid's head tilted slightly. "That is generally the appeal of rarity, yes."
"Right." She pointed at him. "Exactly. So a few years ago I hunted down this old video game. Total cult classic. The graphics were tragic, the mechanics were clunky, and it had this weird little timing glitch that drove people insane."
Reid squinted his eyes, listening carefully.
"But that glitch? It was what made it brilliant. You had to adjust to it. It forced you to play differently. That's why the people who loved it, really loved it." She made a small, frustrated gesture. "And then the company re-released it. They patched the glitch, sharpened the graphics. 'Improved' it." Her nose wrinkled with disdain. "And suddenly, it was totally boring."
Reid watched her carefully.
"They fixed the very thing that made it special. " She continued passionately. "They corrected everything that made it stand out. And yeah, 'technically' it was better. But no one wanted to play it anymore."
Silence met her. She stared at him for a few moments. "Do you see what I am saying here?"
Reid shifted, his expression turned thoughtful.
"You are describing a failure in market analysis." He said carefully. "The developers prioritised functionality over niche appeal."
Garcia pressed her lips together. "Okay, yes, Professor." She said lightly. "But I am not actually upset about a twenty-year-old game."
He blinked.
She tipped her head. "Are you seeing any similarities here?"
There was a pause. Reid's gaze shifted, not quite meeting hers. His voice was cautious. "You are suggesting that the 'glitch' may represent a trait that appears flawed in some contexts but advantageous in others."
Garcia nodded slowly, a smile gracing her lips. Her voice was encouraging. "Warmer."
Reid inhaled as the point was beginning to hit home. "And that the correction of such a trait could remove the characteristic that differentiates the product."
She gave him a look that said 'you're almost there'."
The realisation arrived not all at once, but in layers. "The game was selected because of its irregularity."
"Yes." Garcia pressed.
"And those who valued it did so because it did not function like alternatives."
"Uh-huh." She agreed patiently.
His throat worked as his heart fluttered. "If I am attempting to eliminate irregularities..." He paused for a moment as the realisation landed fully. "I may be eliminating the factor that prompted Agent Gideon to recruit me."
Garcia clapped her hands together. "Hallelujah."
He looked down at his hands. "I have been categorising those traits as liabilities." He murmured.
"But maybe, they're the whole point." Garcia responded gently.
Reid's jaw tightened. "The unit did not request modification."
"Nope." Garcia agreed.
"I initiated it."
"Yup."
He exhaled, his shoulders lifting slightly, as though a weight was starting to lift. He looked towards the bullpen. The space that had begun to feel familiar in ways he hadn't examined too closely.
Reid sighed heavily. "I don't know how to… stop anticipating correction." The admission did not come easily. His cheeks flushed.
"No one is asking you to. That stuff is hard." Garcia shrugged. "Just... don't correct yourself before someone else does."
That made him pause. She made it sound so simple. Correction was something he had learned to avoid throughout his life, in every interaction, in every environment. It had never been a pleasant experience.
Garcia could practically see the cogs turning in his mind. She watched as the emotions flickered across his expression, the pain, the avoidance, the insecurity.
"You learned that somewhere." She said softly.
He didn't respond, but his silence was heavy.
"You didn't just start rehearsing in bathrooms for fun." she continued. "You did it because it was safer."
His throat worked again. "It reduced negative outcomes."
"Yeah." She replied. "Back then, maybe."
He glanced at her.
"Baby, you're still playing by the rules you needed in other rooms." She continued. "Places where being different made you a target."
Reid's brows twitched.
"This isn't one of those rooms." Her words didn't sound rehearsed, just certain.
Reid sucked in a breath and looked towards the bullpen again. Morgan's desk across from his. Gideon and Hotch's offices up on the mezzanine.
"They evaluated me thoroughly." He said thoughtfully.
Garcia's mouth quirked up. "Exactly."
"They were aware of everything."
Garcia nodded encouragingly.
"I have been assuming removal is inevitable." He said after a moment.
Garcia looked at him hopefully. "And now?"
"Maybe it isn't." He answered.
Garcia's hand stroked at his arm again. "There we go." She said fondly.
Reid drew in a careful breath. "I will attempt to… refrain from pre-emptive adjustment."
Garcia smiled warmly. "That's all I can ask for." She said proudly.
He adjusted the strap of his satchel. "Thank you, Garcia."
Garcia felt a warmth wash over her instantly. "Anytime, my dove."
As he finally moved down the corridor towards the elevator, he felt different somehow. Not transformed, or in anyway certain. But he carried a new thought with him: Perhaps he didn't need to change in order to stay. And maybe, just maybe, he already belonged.
The next morning the bullpen was louder. Morgan's laugh carried out from the conference room. Gideon stood in front of the case board, his hands clasped behind his back and Hotch stood at the head of the table as Reid entered.
He slipped quietly into the chair next to Morgan, placing his notepad and case file down on the table in front of him.
Morgan immediately clocked the reams and reams of notes on the page and blew out a breath.
"Jeez, Pretty Boy." He said casually. "You got a monologue prepared for us today?" He chuckled lightly.
Reid felt his chest tighten briefly, and the calculation flickered behind his eyes.
His rehearsed lines quickly ran through his head as his brain worked to select the most appropriate response— then he caught himself.
Pre-emptive adjustment.
He paused for a moment, glancing down at the notes he had made from the file. All valuable contributions towards the case.
"Yes." He said simply.
Morgan turned towards him, slightly taken aback. Then he grinned and slapped Reid gently on the back. "Of course you do, kid."
Gideon glanced over with faint amusement in his eyes. Hotch's lips quirked up into a rare smile.
Reid felt the rehearsed self-deprecation waiting on his tongue. But he let it dissolve.
Instead, he looked down to his pad and began outlining the geographic clustering without timing himself.
His voice ran long and detailed, completely uncompressed. And no one stopped him.
Morgan leaned back, still grinning. But he listened, to every single word.
When Reid finished, Gideon didn't turn. He stepped closer to the board instead. "Good." He said simply.
Morgan nudged him lightly with his elbow. "And that's why you're here, Pretty Boy."
It wasn't teasing this time. It was serious.
Reid looked at him properly, resisting the urge to dissect the tone or search for the flaw in it. But what he found caught him off guard. Morgan was looking at him with a fondness he had never seen before, or perhaps had never allowed himself to.
It hit him right in the chest. He gave a small, shy smile and dragged his gaze towards Hotch, who was now flicking through Reid's notepad.
"This is a comprehensive analysis." Hotch said, his eyebrows raising slightly, clearly impressed. Again, another reaction Reid had never fully taken in before. "This is impressive work." He pushed the notepad back towards Reid. "You can take the lead on the geographic profile."
Reid felt a small flicker of pride building up inside him. It was unfamiliar. It was as if now he was simply allowing himself to just 'be', a shutter had come up and he was reconnecting with the world somehow.
Morgan's hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed supportively.
Around him, the team moved. Gideon marked the board with his theory, Hotch guided the direction, Morgan was already exploring victimology.
There had been no correction. They were building from him. From his thoughts, from his voice.
Reid glanced down at his notes. They were long and unedited lines he hadn't trimmed. For the first time ever, he had allowed the uncensored version to slip out. And it had lit a fire under the team.
For so long, he had been looking for somewhere that felt like home.
He let his gaze lift to the room again.
He just hadn't allowed himself to believe he'd already found it.